Through the Trees
by brazzo
Summary: It wasn't always like this. I used to be sane. Used to be. And it's funny. Even after all she's done, all the trouble she's caused and people she's hurt, I think I still love her. I really do. Based on the movie Jennifer's Body. Creddie. CAM.


_A/N: This is in fact based off of Diablo Cody's newest movie, Jennifer's Body. So if you haven't seen it yet and don't like spoilers, I'd recommend waiting to read this particular story. If you've already seen the movie, don't plan on seeing it, or don't give a fuck about spoilers, soldier on. _

_Also, this is slightly AU. I just haven't decided how much yet..._

**Rated a hard M for violence, language, and sexuality.**

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**Prologue**

It wasn't always like this. I used to be sane. _Used to be._ And it's funny. Even after all she's done, all the shit she's caused and people she's hurt, I think I still love her. I really do.

And that's just fucked up.

They put me in a hospital. They took away my shoe laces and make me do stupid arts and crafts shit. They call me crazy. Words like "incoherent," "dangerous," "psychotic," and "kicker." But only three of those are true. I am _not _incoherent. I just play the part. The part of a deranged teenage killer.

Shit, I bet they already have a Lifetime movie about me in the works. And if not, well someone should really get on that...

But this hospital is no St. Schneider's. This is Leech Lake Women's Correctional Hospital. A place where they send the hopeless causes. This is no _Girl, Interrupted_ either. The women here are crazy as fuck. No fun suicidal cutters or pathological liars or nice sociopaths. Just people like me. People I hate.

And you know what's really fucked up? Everyday, I get letters. I think I get more letters than Santa Claus, Zac Efron, and Dr. Phil combined. I'm kind of the shit. But only to social rejects or people with crosses so far up their asses, you can find God in their nasal passages.

Those people are the ones that send letters to me saying they're praying for me. They tell me everything will be okay if I just accept Jesus Christ into my heart. I say the words, but nothing ever happens. Nobody comes back. Nothing gets better. So fuck them.

Some letters are from admirers. People who actually _like_ me for what I've done. Occasionally they'll say they saw my picture in the paper and tell me they want to marry me or something. They think they can take me away from all this. Like I'd really date some perverted sicko with a hard-on for jailbait. I might be insane, but I'm not desperate.

And a lot of people ask me if I'm sorry I did it... And you know what? I'm just sorry I didn't do it sooner.

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"Rec time in five minutes, Carly." Comes a voice from outside the door of my prison cell of a hospital room.

"Grassy-ass, Raymundo." I reply in an ungrateful tone. A tone that I rarely used before my imprisonment. Before my life was ruined.

I stand from sitting on my hospital bed, the springs groaning as my weight shifts, and begin changing into my gym clothes. I throw my pajama top across the room, not caring where it lands. I look down at the series of puffy, slash-like scars that litter my body around my mid-section. These scars have nothing on the ones that litter my soul.

I pull on my threadbare uniform t-shirt and shorts, both of which that say "Property of Leech Lake" in faded boldface letters, and stare around the room.

I look over to a photo sitting on my dresser and touch the frame wistfully.

"Oh, Freddie." I can't help but sigh. He smiles back at me in one of his signature polos, two fingers making the "bunny ears" sign above his head. The rest of the picture is cut off. The rest of the picture hurts too much to see. I still can't decide whether or not I should keep it up. It always brings out so many different emotions it me. Sorrow, loneliness, bitterness, love, hate. All equal. All annoying.

Next to the photo is a paper cup filled with an assortment of colorful pills. Grabbing the cup, I dump the meds into my mouth, dry-swallowing them all in a hard gulp. I hate these pills. They taste like ass.

I leave the room in my uniform and bunny slippers and make my way to the gym.

---

Welcome to the Mental Olympics. They're big on recreation here. Supposedly it helps us vent our aggressions. We've traded in our hatchets for rackets, our Drain-O bombs for double dutch. Me? I'm just trying to stay invisible. So that's what I do. I take a seat on the floor in the corner. Let them dare approach me. Let them dare say something about it.

"Carly? You don't feel like playing with your friends today?" one of the nitwit counselors asks me as she writes something down on her stupid chart. She points to a group of spazhead crazies playing badminton across the room.

"None of these nubs are my friends. And badminton's not my forte." I spit back acidly.

"Well you have to play _something_, or we'll revoke your Wheel of Fortune privileges." Wheel of Fortune is the only TV show they'll let us watch here. They have tapes of the show dating back to 1985. Apparently the Jeopardy theme tune makes some of the patients aggressive.

"Fine." I say, getting up. I ask a mentally retarded lady if I can join her in some tetherball. She calls me a cunt and spits in my face. I stomp on her left foot and leave her crying in pain.

"That was fun." I say to the counselor as I walk back to my corner. She can't do anything this time, I was provoked first. But I doubt I'll be watching Wheel of Fortune tonight. Pity.

An hour later and it's time for lunch. Everyone, including me, is now freshly showered from rec time. Personally, I think they're trying to wear us out. Keep up sluggish so there won't be an uprising. Well those J.V. tactics won't work against me. I'm a kicker. K-I-C-K-E-R. It even says so on my chart. Ask anyone.

I hate the jank food here too. It sucks. I grab a toaster pastry from the food line and sit down to eat alone.

"Just one Toastem, huh?" the nutritionist asks me. Jesus, where do these people come from? They're like ninjas with medical charts and Crocs.

"I like Toastems." I reply. This lady is seriously asking for it.

"That's good. But I'm not sure a Toastem can provide you with sufficient energy for your day. I'd recommend more complex carbohydrates and --"

WAM!

That's when I did it. I stood up and provided her with a swift roundhouse kick to the face. It knocks her wayyy off her feet. Blood goes EVERYWHERE. The patients all shriek and yell and run around and I laugh. I love this. The moment right before the rest of the orderlies swoop in and calm everything down again. It's like kicking an ant farm. It's awesome.

"I'D RECOMMEND YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!" I scream at her.

It takes four staff members to haul me away. This makes me proud. They take me to what I fondly refer to as "the Hole." It's the solitary confinement room they put the none suicidals in. Nothing but cold, dark grey concrete, a barred door with a food tray slot, and a small window at the very top of the room. Too high for anyone to reach.

I wasn't always this cracked. I promise. I used to be normal. I used to have good friends, a nice apartment, an awesome brother, and even a webshow. But after the killings began, I started to feel, I don't know... loose around the edges or something. I was coming undone like those jeans I made in Home Ec. Falling to pieces like most of my brother's "sculptures." Shredded like moo-shu pork. Dead inside.

I look around the room and I swear the shadows are moving. I swear I see _her _shadow next to mine. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe that bitch really fucked me up good. It really doesn't matter now, though, cause I'm here. This is real. I sit in patience waiting to see what song they're gonna pipe through the loud speaker this time. Usually it's some Phil Collins bullshit. Or soft classical music. They think it soothes us. And sometimes, it does. As the music starts up, I groan aloud.

"_Through the trees, I will find you;  
I will heal the ruins left inside you,__  
Cause I'm still here breathing now...__  
I'm still here breathing now...__  
I'm still here breathing now...  
__Until I'm set free,  
Go quiet through the trees."_

"Jesus H. Christ. I HATE this fucking song!" I shout to no one, plugging my ears to drown out the _noise._

And why might I hate this song? Because this is the song that ruined my life. This is the song that started it all. This is the song that Sam and I danced to on our last normal night together. Before _it _all happened. This is the song that sealed her fate. This is the song that killed her.

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_Let me know what you guys think and whether I should continue or not. :]_


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